


Empress

by intodusk



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Gen, Heroes as Villains, King!Emma, Villains as Heroes, flipped au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 01:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intodusk/pseuds/intodusk
Summary: Brockton Bay (and Bet to boot) have become a bit... Bizarro. In a world flipped upside-down, our intrepid heroine sets out to be the biggest, baddest villain in town.





	1. Chapter 1

I never got why people thought you had to go all the way to the top of a skyscraper to make everyone else look like ants. In my experience, just a few stories did the trick. Sure, it wasn't high enough to turn them into featureless little specks, but every other detail fit. The office building whose roof I was on gave me enough perspective to see the throngs for what they were: small parts of a big machine following predetermined paths, crowding around the food trucks and street vendors before trudging back to their respective hills. An uncharitable comparison, maybe, but not a wrong one.  
  
Turning away from the concrete parapet only separated me from the sights. I could still hear their banal chatter, smell their greasy chow. I could still _feel_ them - well, a good fraction at least - bustling to and fro, weaving around one another to get at what remained of the lunch rush. More still meandered around the edge of my senses, miles away now but still, as I knew instinctively, within my reach.  
  
The sensation was like how, when you close your eyes, you still have a general idea of where your arms and legs are relative to the rest of you, only with a ton of extra phantom limbs. Hundreds of vague impressions of direction and distance cluttered my subconscious, each attached by a thin thread of awareness, ready to be tugged on. It might've been interesting if I weren't already used to it. Now, it was just noise to filter through.  
  
My phone's display read 1:14. I didn't feel anyone in the direction of the Forsberg Gallery coming towards me, but I knew I would soon.  
  
As rooftops go this one wasn't very dirty, but that didn't make it clean. I set my backpack and garment bag down far from the visibly grimy areas and, careful not to let my slacks touch the ground, crouched to retrieve the latter's contents.  
  
The fitted blazer came first. It was an eye-catching dark gold, dull enough to avoid being gaudy while still maintaining a subtle metallic sheen. I shrugged it on.  
  
Next, I grabbed a couple hairties and a handful of hairpins from the bag's pockets. Crown braids were deceptively simple to put together, though doing it to my own hair rather than someone else's added a layer of difficulty. I left a few strands loose to frame my face and flipped a compact open to assess the results.  
  
I kept the compact out and applied a deep crimson lipstick. It was bolder than my usual fare, but then, I _was_ a cape. Flashiness was the name of the game.  
  
Finally, the mask. It was a half-mask in porcelain white with lines of imitation gold leafing sketching fine, curling patterns around the eyes and edges. Varnish sealed the details in and protected the materials from the elements. I turned it over in my hands, admiring the fruits of my handiwork, before slipping it on.  
  
I checked my phone again. 1:28. Not long now.  
  
The garment bag was of a thin enough material to roll up and stuff into the bottom of my backpack, with lots of room to spare. I slung the pack over my shoulder and took a last-minute assessment of myself.  
  
No smudges marring the white of my blouse.  
  
No lint speckling the black of my slacks.  
  
No scuffs spoiling the condition of my oxfords.  
  
No blade weighing down the pocket of my blazer- _hold on._  
  
I swore under the whistle of the wind, patting every pocket on my person. _I know I had it with me when I left, where did I…_ My backpack. I unzipped the front pouch to find my straight razor and shook my head, admonishing myself for worrying. The blade settled into my pocket and the pack returned to my back. Everything was good to go.  
  
1:32. They'd probably started out by now.  
  
The collective sensory mass of everyone I was connected to was hard to sift through straight on, so I took a shortcut. I thought of the two men I was looking for, pinned their appearances in my mind, and pinched the back of my hand. The strings connecting them to me went taut, siphoning the tiny jolt of pain I should have felt and sending it down the wire to them. In an instant, my power had them sorted from the static.  
  
West-northwest, towards the towering hearts of the financial district, the tallest buildings in Brockton Bay. Maybe a mile or two out and approaching steadily. I could see part of the Gallery past the tamer skyscrapers, sun glinting off its odd windows, its own lighting off during the day.  
  
My gaze drifted past the buildings towards Captain’s Hill, that elevated sliver of land separating our urban pocket from the mountains that surrounded us. Atop it, visible from most anywhere in the city: The Chateau. A two-tiered construction in cappuccino white and blue-gray, set with mirrored windows and sheltered under a domed forcefield. Its pale glow made the colors pop. Technically it was both the Protectorate ENE’s headquarters and the local PRT’s base of operations, but Chateau was much more succinct.  
  
I wondered who they'd be sending out, who would arrive first. Maybe Greenlight, in one of her wicked rigs, or Carbon Copy flitting from rooftop to rooftop. The uncertainty made me bite the inside of my cheek. The excitement made my chest feel helium-light.  
  
The two I was tracking were nearly here. I held my arms out like an extra in a zombie movie, bent down ninety degrees at the wrist. When they were within half a block I raised up on the balls of my feet, concentrated on the man slightly closer to me, and tipped forward.  
  
The sensation of impact as my knuckles hit the roof was a dull and distant thing, as was the strain of my wrists trying to bend past their limits. I knew how it should feel but the hurt bypassed me entirely, sending what must have been rather painful sprains over to the man I was focused on instead.  
  
From the street, I could hear tires screeching to a halt, causing the chatter to stir and horns to honk. Perfect.  
  
I climbed atop the raised ledge, slowly getting to my feet. Down below, a SafeGuard armored truck was holding up traffic. Pedestrians had stopped to stare; few had noticed me yet. The patch of sidewalk directly beneath me was clear.  
  
This was always easier to do while I was looking skyward. I craned my neck at the convoy of clouds above, hauling tomorrow's rain south to Boston. Sheer ribbons of sunlight moved with them, sweeping the horizon. The birds getting a late start on migration followed in a V-formation, each riding the updraft of the leader.  
  
I smiled. It was a good day to be bad.  
  
I stepped off the ledge.  
  
Experience tempered the thrill of freefall to the same degree that a piece of cardboard would slow a bowling ball. The air was dragged from my lungs. My stomach lurched into my throat and brought friends. It was all I could do to keep from ditching dignity and flailing.  
  
And then it was over, and I was standing on the sidewalk, no worse for wear. The same could not be said for the second man in the truck, whose legs were likely broken now, if his muffled scream was anything to go by. A bit harsh for a man just doing his job, but, well, eggs and omelettes and all that.  
  
Between the scream and my entrance, the rabble was now captivated, gawking, backing away just enough to stay out of the metaphorical splash zone. Gasps and hushed murmurs rippled through them. More than a few pulled out their phones.  
  
I took a moment to shrug my blazer back into order and affected a small smile. No need for words yet; presence would be enough.  
  
The _clack, clack_ of my shoes as I strode into the street cut through the white noise. It would be impossible to miss the confidence in my posture, the purpose in my stride. I knew without looking that all eyes were on me; I was well used to the feeling.  
  
I stopped just in front of the SafeGuard truck. The man in the passenger seat was barely visible through the square windshield, hunched forward, likely clutching his legs. The driver had his phone cradled awkwardly in both hands, struggling to tap its screen with his injured hands. He hadn't noticed me yet.  
  
I reached into my pocket with one hand and rapped the other’s knuckles on the hood. The driver’s head snapped up.  
  
I waved.  
  
He stared, face caught between confusion and anger.  
  
I pulled out my straight razor, flicked it open, and gently dragged its edge down my cheek.  
  
A thin cut appeared on his own cheek as I did so, just deep enough to bloom red and drip down his stubble-darkened jaw. He winced and brought a hand up to it, then went still as understanding dawned.  
  
My smile widened and I let the blade glide down until it just touched the skin on my neck. My other hand pantomimed putting a key in a lock and turning it.  
  
Whatever defiance he'd held onto until now fled from his expression. His hard eyes were undermined by a sense of submission, one I couldn't pin to any particular element of his posture but could read nonetheless. He nodded and reached down to fiddle with something below the dashboard, his phone forgotten. When he was done, I heard a metallic _thunk_ from the back of the truck.  
  
I gestured for him to get out and he reluctantly complied. He was maybe twice my age and only barely taller, wearing ill-fitting khakis and a polo in rough but durable materials. A vest with more pockets and pouches than I thought necessary hung on his thick frame, and though he'd not made any motions towards them, I figured reinforcing the weight of the situation couldn't hurt.  
  
“I hope you've got an idea of what's going on by now,” I said, tone casual and sweet despite the blade by my throat. “Trying anything brave will only get you hurt. At most you'd be inconveniencing me for a few seconds. So let's get this all over with and go our separate ways, okay?”  
  
Another nod. He was having more and more trouble meeting my gaze. He started around to the back of the truck, avoiding the crowd's eyes as well. Some people just weren't comfortable in the spotlight.  
  
“Hands where I can see them, please,” I chimed.  
  
He complied, keeping them up until we were at the back door. When I handed him my backpack he hesitated, likely because he'd expected a couple duffle bags at least, but accepted it. I didn't have to tell him what to do with it. He opened the door and climbed inside.  
  
To my surprise, there was hardly any cash in the truck at all. The driver was able to fit a significant portion in the bag, his wrists only slowing him down a little. By the time it was full there were only a handful of banded stacks left on the pallett. He zipped up my bag and started back out.  
  
“Stop.” I held up a hand. I quirked a brow at a hint of blue half-hidden under the remaining cash. I hadn't known about any extra cargo beforehand, but if they'd gone so far as to hide it, it was probably worth something. “That too.”  
  
His jaw set, and for the first time since I cut him he looked like he wanted to try something.  
  
I bit my tongue and he flinched. My eyes narrowed and my smile turned sharp. “That wasn't a request.”  
  
Scowling but once more cowed, he pulled a blue folder out from under the cash and stuffed it into the laptop pocket of my pack.  
  
“Wasn't so hard, was it?” I said as he returned my now-bulging bag. “Now be good and sit tight.” The door was heavier than I expected but I managed to swing it shut in his face, trapping him inside.  
  
I turned to address the gawkers, but a glimpse of motion from a distant rooftop killed the words in my throat. Butterflies danced in my stomach and my grin became genuine, showing teeth. I let the razor fall to my side.  
  
A pair of huge creatures came into focus, leaping from building to building with ease. They were monstrous things, all fierce spines and lean, hulking muscle. Their long, whip-like tails trailed behind them like sinewy afterimages. Each bore a passenger, hanging on by the larger shoulder spines.  
  
One continued past me and the civilians, then leapt down to the empty street in front of the truck. Its rider wore a black leather jacket and a collar, each covered in studs and spikes evocative of the creatures’ forms. A dog mask that looked like something between a German Shepherd and a wolf snarled silently at me.  
  
The second beast stopped atop a two-story parking garage overlooking the backed-up traffic, all but trapping me between them. This one's rider hopped off its back before coming to stand on the ledge. She was all but swimming in a long coat with an Inverness cape and a matching deerstalker cap, each in the same houndstooth pattern. Blonde hair spilled down her back and a simple domino mask protected her identity. Her purple necktie hung loose, her grey slacks were pleated, and her shoes were stuck all over with colorful wads, mostly around and under the soles.  
  
No one else came after. I tried not to let my disappointment show.  
  
Gumshoe smirked anyways. “Sorry stranger, just us. A one-woman robbery doesn't really scream all hands on deck, you know.”  
  
A pair of Wards. Not quite the same impact as a Protectorate member or two, but I could work with it.  
  
I waved her off. “I'll try not to be too broken up about it. Can you blame me for wanting to see Polaris in action, though?”  
  
She chuckled, retrieving a pipe from within her coat. “Try working with her. Wearing sunglasses all the time gets old.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, the truck, and finally me. “I don't suppose you'd come quietly if we asked you to, huh, Fancypants?”  
  
I _tsk_ ’ed. “The name's Pristine, actually-”  
  
“Prissy-pants, then.”  
  
“-and I do plan on leaving quietly, just not with you. Sorry to disappoint.”  
  
She pursed her lips, adopting a thoughtful pout. “Mm, and how do you expect to get away with it, with us meddling kids around?”  
  
“Oh, it's simple,” I said. “With a streetful of hostages, of course.”  
  
She stiffened, just enough for me to notice. The crowd mirrored the shift, murmurs cutting out into silent dread.  
  
“It's okay if you couldn't figure it out yourself,” I assured, tone dripping with condescension. “You've probably pegged me as a Brute, right? That's some of it, so hey, partial credit. But _this_ is what _really_ sets me apart.” I lifted one foot before stomping the group as hard as I could, putting my whole body's weight behind it, heel first.  
  
A chorus of surprised yelps and shouts drowned out the sound of the stomp. About a third of our audience dropped to one knee, caught off-guard by the sudden jolt of collective pain. Some shrieked despite being unaffected before others hissed at them to be quiet.  
  
From down the street, I heard Hellhound shout, “Brutus-!”  
  
“Hold on,” Gumshoe called, pointing her pipe at her teammate. Her smirk was still in place, but I could feel the daggers in her glare. Whether she was more upset about me threatening civilians or insulting her intelligence was anyone's guess. “So, demands, then. Every dumbass that takes hostages has them. I already know yours, but tell me anyways.”  
  
“Sure you do,” I purred. “Well, what's going to happen is I'm going to walk away, and you two will stay put like good little lap dogs and watch me go.” A shrug. “That's it.”  
  
“Right. And what's to stop us from restraining you without hurting you?”  
  
I scoffed. “One, I seriously doubt Hellhound’s hellhounds could manage that. I mean, their teeth are almost as big as some of those spikes! Your in-house vet better be getting hazard pay.” A tilt of the head for emphasis. “And two, I'd bet all the money in this bag you've got some strict protocols about dealing with hostage situations, especially when powers are involved. There's no way your director would be happy to hear you endangered a bunch of civilians for the sake of a bag of cash.” My razor hovered closer to my collar and my grin looked nearly as dangerous. “Tell me I'm wrong.”  
  
She stayed silent, chewing the end of her pipe in the corner of her mouth the way a mountain lion might pace its cage.  
  
I laughed. “So you _do_ shut up sometimes! Good to know.” I wasn't wearing a watch, but I pretended to be checking one anyways. “I really should get going now, places to go and cash to stash, you know. I'm sure I don't need to tell you what’ll happen if you try to follow me. And, because I'm so nice, I'll give you a little something to Think about while I leave.” I turned away, maintained eye contact, cocked my hip, and let my free hand come to rest on my rear.  
  
_Pat, pat._  
  
Gumshoe scowled, but hid it behind her pipe. As she puffed, bright pink bubbles rose from the bowl and drifted away on the wind.  
  
I could feel her Thinker-ing her hardest at me as I strolled past the crowd, but the weight of a backpack full of cash helped distract me. The alley I slipped into bent hard left in the middle before going right again, and as soon as I reached that in-between spot where no one could see me, I burst into a sprint.  
  
The lunch rush was past over now, so when I burst out into the street there were only a few bewildered passersby to weave around. Another alley took me to another street, and from there it was only half a block to the nearest subway entrance. I flew down the stairs four or five at a time. It was a lot easier to throw caution to the wind when you didn't have to worry about getting hurt anymore.  
  
If the streets above were empty this time of day, the subways were downright deserted. There was no one around to yell at me for jumping the turnstile, no line for the ladies’ room, and no closed stalls inside. I locked myself in one and made quick work of bagging up my blazer and mask. Undoing the crown braid took longer, and I'd have to wait until I could shower to work the kinks out of my hair, but I got it done too.  
  
I took one step out of the stall, saw myself in the dirty bathroom mirror and groaned. I pulled a makeup wipe from my backpack’s side pocket.  
  
When I finally went down to the platform there were a few others hanging around: an old man on a bench with his nose in a paperback, a twenty-something at the platform's edge bearing a goatee and a guitar case, a pretty girl around my age leaning against a support beam and nodding along to whatever was in her earbuds. The girl's dark eyes lingered on me for a moment as I descended but not for long enough that I was worried she'd figured me out.  
  
I spent the next handful of minutes working through the lingering jitters. I couldn't have asked for that to go smoother. Underwhelming Ward response notwithstanding, every element went off without a hitch. There'd be phone camera videos of me up on PHO within the hour. If I could keep up a string of successes, I might become a household name in Brockton within the month, and didn't that thought make my cheeks sore from smiling?  
  
Oh, and I was also carrying more cash than I'd ever seen in my life. That was great, too.  
  
The L line pulled up and I headed into an empty car near the back. I found a seat in the middle, hefted my backpack into my lap, and draped the garment bag over it, feeling like I'd just officially gotten away with it.  
  
That is, until the girl with the earbuds glided into my car. The doors closed behind her; she'd cut it closer than Indiana Jones tripping a trap. She took the seat directly across from mine, slightly hunched, hands in the pockets of her unzipped hoodie. As the cars started to move she shut her eyes and seemed to lose herself in her music.  
  
I fiddled with the hanger of my garment bag. The third rule of subway etiquette (after ‘no bathroom activities in the cars’ and ‘no _bedroom_ activities in the cars’) was ‘don't stare at strangers’, but I was having trouble with that. My eyes roved her for any clues towards affiliations, but there were none to be found. In fact, her outfit was particularly plain - undecorated hoodie, simple tank top, basic skinny jeans. It seemed like something I'd throw together if I specifically didn't want to be noticed, and that put me on edge.  
  
I began running through possibilities in my head. She couldn't be with the Mad Carnival; she was too young to be the Acrorat and too, well, black to be Deadeye. The Wards were a possibility, but only if Peekaboo was slouching hard in every press photo. The ones she was actually in, at least.  
  
She looked too young to be a non-cape operative of any organization, but I kept the possibility on the backburner just in case.  
  
Abruptly, her eyes snapped open, too sudden for me to look away. She quirked a brow.  
  
I blushed. I didn't really have an excuse.  
  
She held my gaze for a moment before relaxing back into her seat. “Not too shabby, for a newbie. A few big weak points, but you got away with it, so.”  
  
My fist clenched around the handle of my pack. “Sorry, what?”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Look, play dumb if you want, but we don't have long before the next stop.”  
  
“I really don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
“Yeah? Then what's with the bulging backpack?”  
  
I hugged it closer. “Books.”  
  
She chuckled. “That's a lot of books.”  
  
“What can I say? I watched a lot of Wishbone tapes as a kid.” My feet planted a little firmer on the ground, ready to spring out of my seat to touch her if she became a threat. “Feels a little odd to have a conversation while you have earbuds in.”  
  
“Oh, these?” She pulled the jack out of her pocket. It wasn't connected to anything. She put it back. “They're just to make me look busy. I can hear you fine.” She gave me a considering look, then shrugged. “Well, _if_ you happened to be the new cape who just hit the truck I was scoping, and _if_ you happened to nab a blue folder from it, just know there's people interested in negotiating for it.”  
  
“And _if_ , theoretically, those things were true… what would they want it for?”  
  
“Taking on the syndicate that runs downtown.”  
  
I frowned. “No one runs downtown. The Protectorate has been keeping anyone from consolidating there for the last decade.”  
  
“These guys don't play the way Madcap and the white hats do. They run the real underground, the backroom deals, the smuggling rings. They're more the type to keep a senator in their pocket than hold them for ransom. That folder could be an in to their ops.” The car started to slow and she stood, not bothering to hold on to a pole or rung. “Come to Handsome Rob’s tomorrow at four. We'll work something out.” She started towards the doors but stopped when I grabbed her arm.  
  
“Nuh-uh. You give me a number I can call tomorrow and _I'll_ tell _you_ where to meet me. You'll have half an hour to get there. If the ‘interested party’ isn't there by then, it's off. And I expect something in return for compromising my identity.”  
  
She shrugged out of my grip, lips curling ever-so-slightly, and pulled a notepad from her hoodie. “Alright.” She scribbled on a page, tore it, and held the resulting scrap out to me.  
  
I hesitated before reaching up to grab it, and nearly jumped out of my skin when my hand passed through it completely.  
  
It, as well as the girl herself, had turned ethereal, wispy. It was like I was seeing her through frosted glass, like she'd disappeared and been replaced by a girl-shaped cloud of dark mist. My heart pounded against my ribcage and I was suddenly extra aware of all the people my power was connecting me to.  
  
And then she was solid again, brows raised over low lids, waggling the scrap of paper. “I'd say we're about even now.”  
  
Not knowing what to say, I took the paper and watched her walk away. The car's speakers dinged and announced the stop, the doors opened, and only as she was about to slip away did I find my voice.  
  
“You said there were weak points in-” my eyes flickered to the open doors “-in _Pristine’s_ plan. What did you mean?”  
  
She studied me a moment, then said, “If the Wards hadn't stopped to talk, if they'd gone on the attack before they knew how her power worked… would she have killed hostages to get away?”  
  
“She had the razor, right?”  
  
“Yeah, but _would she?_ ” The girl shoved her hands back into her hoodie. “Something to think about.”  
  
And then she was gone, doors closing soon after. Alone, I chewed on the inside of my cheek.  
  
_Would I?_  


♕

  
One more stop, two buses, and a five minute walk later I was home, wiping my oxfords on the doormat. Mom was in the kitchen when I got inside, reading from her budget-conscious cookbook and checking recipes against our middling supplies in the fridge. She looked up when I locked the door behind me, smiled weakly, and went back to her itemizing.  
  
“Hi, sweetheart. How'd the shoot go?”  
  
I headed into the hall as I replied. “Got cancelled. One of the lighting guys tripped and knocked over a soft box lamp. I'm going back tomorrow for the reshoot.”  
  
“Just remember you're going back to school tomorrow,” she called after me.  
  
“Yeah, yeah!”  
  
When I passed by the little shrine on the table in the hall, I put a finger to my lips and winked at my dad's picture. He'd keep my secret.  
  
My sister was in college and tended not to stay the night on the rare occasions when she visited, so the back of her closet was as good a temporary stash zone as any. I piled some of the clothes she'd left behind over the backpack for good measure.  
  
Once I'd gotten to my room, shut the door, and hid the garment bag among ten others in my own closet, I breathed a sigh of relief I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The subway girl had been an unexpected hitch, but otherwise I'd gotten out clean. I was literally home free. I couldn't help myself- I did a quick little dance.  
  
A knock on my door startled me out of it. “Yeah?”  
  
Mom didn't bother to open the door. She was used to me holing myself up in here. “Honey, would you rather have pasta or soup tonight?”  
  
“Either one's fine. Soup, I guess?” She usually put noodles in her soups anyways. I changed out of my blouse and into an oversized tee. I was about to swap my slacks for pajama shorts when I remembered the paper in my pocket.  
  
“Alright, I'll let you know when it's ready. And, Emma?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Sorry your shoot didn't work out today.”  
  
“Oh, it's fine,” I said, eyes gliding over the number on the scrap. “If it goes well…” I smiled and placed it atop my dresser. “Tomorrow could even be bigger than I was expecting.”


	2. 1.2 Manifesto

Winslow was not a good school. Even the average Winslow student knew this, and the average Winslow student couldn't add two-digit numbers together without a calculator. It was a cesspool of Carnie underlings, wannabe pushers, and the dregs of students other schools didn't want, all overseen by a staff that was either uncaring or incompetent. The academic expectations were below sea level and the social ladder was open to anyone with a backbone thicker than a matchstick.  
  
In other words, it was a place where I would have _thrived_.  
  
Arcadia, in perfect contrast, was a stellar school. It wore its quality on its sleeves, in the ivy woven into its gates, in its clean white tiles and floors and its glass display cabinets overflowing with accolades. Trophies for stars of the basketball court and the mock court, medals for triathletes and academic decathletes. It was nigh-impossible to go from one classroom to another without passing by a proud reminder that, here, excellence was the expectation.  
  
Teen models didn't get plaques.  
  
The social aspects were almost worse. Sure, go anywhere else and say you go to Arcadia and you'd thoroughly impress a cashier or whatever, but the students themselves only cared about three things: academics, sports, and capes. You made friends by joining study groups, joining a team, or by looking like maybe, just maybe, you could be one of the Wards. I myself struggled to manage the C’s and D’s I skated by on, could barely lift a bowling ball on my own strength, and was too feminine to be Hellhound and too redheaded to be anyone else. So, to the majority of Arcadia’s student population, I might as well have been nobody.  
  
Okay, it wasn't quite that bad. I had a few people I chatted with in every class, and I never had to worry about finding groups for projects. Point was, out of all of those acquaintances, there wasn't one I could call a genuine _friend_ , no one that fit even half of what the word entailed. Not anymore, at least.  
  
The closest approximation I had left was sitting across from me at our usual cafeteria table, tapping away at her phone. A lone lock of her textured golden bob had strayed into her face, but she hardly seemed to notice. Her focus was, as always, somewhere else, and were it not for the chatter surrounding us, I was sure I'd be able to hear the gears turning in her head. If she noticed me playing _is that black wool coat imitation or genuine label_ , it didn't bother her.  
  
The bell rang and I took one last nibble from my salad’s remains. The tupperware went in my backpack and the rest was consigned to the paper bag, destined for the trash. Before I left I said, “Lively company as always, Vicky.”  
  
Without looking up she returned, “Have fun in Alg 2.”  
  
I rolled my eyes so hard she'd see it in her peripheral and filed in with the others headed to the halls. This had been our routine for a while now so I no longer minded that she took lessons in conversation from brick walls. When she'd first started sitting with me, I'd tried to get her to leave. When she'd refused to, I'd settled into awkward resignation. Now, it was just another part of my day-to-day, expected, almost comfortable.  
  
From what I could tell, I was the only one in the whole school she didn't just brush off. I knew it was only because my dad had worked with her mom, but there was still something to be said about the security in exclusivity.  
  
On the topic of security, I needed to figure out where I wanted to meet with subway girl and whoever she worked with. I'd decided to go through with it last night; she already knew what I looked like, and if I was careful I'd have little to lose and lots to gain. Question was, what location would put me in the driver's seat?  
  
I waded through the crowd and towards the stairwell, body running on autopilot. Bayview Park came to mind, but there was no guarantee of potential witnesses in case things turned sour somehow, no real safety net. Plus, any new capes I met would have the option of arriving in costume, and I wanted them to have to give that up to meet with me, to willingly start on the backfoot. Restaurants ticked both boxes.  
  
I took my time heading up to the third floor. Handsome Rob’s was out. For one, I'd run the risk of having to wait for a booth, given how popular the place was, and for another it'd look like I was ceding control back to them by defaulting to her first choice. A definite no-go.  
  
I started down the hall, paying no attention to the other students as they passed. Somewhere nicer might do, if I snuck into the bathroom to call around for a reservation, but I wasn't sure I wanted them to think I was taking them too seriously. It might also make me look over-arrogant, spending big the day after my first known hit, like some sort of cape _nouveau riche_. Somewhere low-pressure and simple would either meet their expectations or force them to further concede to my choices. I liked that. Maybe-  
  
A near-collision at a hall corner knocked my train of thought clean off the rails. The girl I'd almost bowled over squeaked and dropped the books she'd been carrying. Once I'd snapped out of my surprise I bent down to help her pick them up. “Sorry ‘bout that, I wasn't- oh.”  
  
Once she'd gathered most of her books back up in her broomstick arms, she put a hand on the other side of the stack I was holding out to her and finally looked up at me. Her thick, old-fashioned glasses amplified the widening of her already large eyes to a cartoonish degree. Her dark curls draped down her shoulders in a pair of loose braids, the same way she'd worn them since middle school. Then, it'd made her look like a fourth grader sentenced to the rack. Now it just contributed to her disarming dorkiness.  
  
“Hi, Taylor.”  
  
Her wide mouth tightened into an uncomfortable smile. “Hey Emma. Um, how’ve you been?”  
  
I returned it, lips curling, painfully chipper. “Oh, good, good. Great, really- I landed a _very_ good gig yesterday.”  
  
Her eyebrows rose but her smile didn't. “Cool! The modeling thing, right?”  
  
“The modeling thing, yeah.”  
  
“Well congrats, I'm happy for you.” Warmth bled into her tone through the awkwardness and my stomach churned. “How are-”  
  
A blonde, freckled girl shorter than both of us sidled up to Taylor and put a hand around her skinny bicep. I suppressed a scowl. She gave me an odd look, like she was trying to recognize me even though we'd met enough times to know each other's names, then gave Taylor's arm a light tug. “Hey, sorry to interrupt and all, but Mr. Hayes does seat sign-ups at the start of each semester. We should get there early so we can finagle spots for you, me, and Rach together.”  
  
Taylor gasped. “You're so right, I forgot all about that.”  
  
Sarah gave her a put on sigh. “Where would you be without me, honey bear?”  
  
“Sitting alone at the front like last year,” she returned, succumbing to Sarah's pull. She craned her neck back to me and the subtle unease reappeared. “I gotta go, but… I'll see you around?”  
  
I accepted my consolation prize with grace and a wave.  
  
“And say hi to Zoe and Alan for me!” she called.  
  
With that the two of them broke into half-jogs down the hall. Sarah's french braid bounced in time with Taylor's braids, the two of them making an adorable matching set.  
  
I threw up in my mouth a little. It tasted like vinegarette.  
  
She still didn't know. I'd known she didn't know, I hadn't told her and there weren't many other ways for her to find out, but it still stung to be reminded of the fact. Maybe it was stubborn, maybe it was childish, but I wasn't going to tell her until she asked- asked why I'd stopped taking her calls that summer, why I'd missed so many of those first days of high school. It was pure petty spite and it would pay off so dearly when she finally gave ground and asked.  
  
A vestigial echo of something weak and wistful in me wondered what could have happened if Taylor, the one person I'd have let trespass the sacred solitude of my room, had cared enough to do so. It wanted to daydream about what might have been.  
  
I tramped it down. It was a pleasant thought but the damage had been done. I'd been left to rot while some girl she'd met at summer camp had taken my place.  
  
I turned and started towards my Algebra 2 classroom. It wouldn't do any good to dwell too long. I had important things to see to today and it wouldn't do to slip up because I was distracted.  
  
_Where was I? Restaurants, right. Low-pressure, enough people around to have witnesses, not enough to have eavesdroppers…_  
  
I smiled to myself, almost feeling it. I knew just the place.  


♕

  
Three hours later I was sipping iced tea through a plastic straw, working through a burger wrapped in lettuce in lieu of a bun, and making it look like I was just people watching and not watching for specific people. The restaurant's interior was a little cramped for my tastes so I was seated at one of the tables outside, shaded by the red-and-white umbrella built into it. My light denim jacket kept the coastal breeze from bothering me and some pointed glares did the same to the boys from the nearby college campus.  
  
I resisted fiddling with the zipper of my backpack. It'd only been ten minutes since I'd called the meeting here so they had plenty of time but I couldn't be sure they weren't already here, waiting nearby, watching to see if I'd sweat the uncertainty. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction, but I didn't want to be caught off-guard either. A delicate balance, achieved by me pretending to be on my phone and sneaking glances around when I put it down to eat.  
  
A family of five had walked in after I'd made the call - from a nearby payphone, not my cell - but I felt safe counting them out given how young the kids were. A pair of boys that were either high school upperclassmen or college freshmen headed inside now but they chatted easily enough to be friends and neither of them spared me as much as a covert glance. A small gaggle of teenagers in Immaculata uniforms began to loiter by the entrance of a nearby liquor store, though none of them looked old enough to buy smokes or booze.  
  
And then came subway girl. She strolled toward me with a subtle, unerring confidence, straightened ponytail bobbing, hands in the pockets of her black track jacket. Underneath she wore a grey top, thick to combat the chill, and matching joggers that complimented her long legs. If there was any indication of stress to be found in her posture or stride, I couldn't see it.  
  
I wondered briefly if she'd ever considered a career in modeling, then put both the thought and my phone away.  
  
“I'd gotten the impression you were planning on bringing company,” I started as she sat next to me, speaking just before she was going to.  
  
Her lips twitched up a fraction, hardly phased. “And I'd gotten the impression you'd be choosing something more high-brow than In-N-Out.”  
  
“Thought you might appreciate a low-pressure environment. Do you want something to eat before we talk?”  
  
“Already ordered.” She ignored the questioning quirk of my brow. “First off: you got the papers with you?”  
  
I nodded.  
  
Her eyes flickered to my backpack, seated between us on the table's bench-chair-thing, then back to me.  
  
I said nothing.  
  
She moved on. “Second: got any affiliations we should know about, gangs or whatever else?”  
  
Her straightforwardness surprised me but I didn't let it show. “Nope. Independent, capital I.”  
  
“There's less risky ways to get some spending money, you know.”  
  
“And none of them pay out as well.”  
  
“True enough.” She scanned my expression and posture, not bothering to mask the action. “What is it you want out of this?”  
  
I paused. “Out of this talk, or my… _side job_ , in general?”  
  
She shrugged.  
  
“As far as our business here goes, financial compensation is a given.” When she didn’t protest I continued. “Beyond that I want to know what you meant when you mentioned this mystery syndicate. If this info is so sensitive, I want to know what I’d be aiding and abetting against by giving it to you.”  
  
“Wanting to walk on the safe side of the crossfire?”  
  
I suppressed a frown. “Call it professional curiosity.”  
  
She nodded, somehow satisfied. “And out of your side job?”  
  
_Confidence_ , I reminded myself. I inspected my perfect nails and let the corners of my mouth tilt up a fraction, easy, self-assured. “One day?” I met her eyes again. “I'm going to rule this city.”  
  
She gave me a blank stare for a moment, long enough that I leaned into the tethers of my power a bit, just in case. Then she reared her head back and laughed, and her body language relaxed ever-so-slightly. “Sure thing, princess. Be the one to knock Monarch off his fancy forcefield-covered throne. Just get me front row tickets when you pull it off.” Unphased by my scowl, she sent a pair of gestures towards the In-N-Out’s interior. One was a hand signal I didn’t recognize and the other was a simple _come here_ motion.  
  
The pair of boys I’d seen enter the restaurant now emerged and approached our table. One had short red hair with a messy fringe and an outfit that would send even the chillest of suburban moms on a rant about devil worshippers and gateway music. A black trenchcoat partially covered a metal band shirt with an indecipherable logo. The black skinny jeans squeezing his pale, skinny legs were torn in more places than just the knees. The bruise-purple eyeshadow and thick liner made him look even more disheveled than he was, and his numerous ear piercings boasted an admirable commitment to the look as well as a complete and utter lack of taste.  
  
The other boy was almost his opposite. He was tall, muscular, and vaguely hispanic. His long, dark locks were halfway tucked behind his ears, stray strands brushing his collarbone. His outfit was pure jock couture, a blank gray v-neck over basketball shorts, and if the weather made him regret his lack of coverage he wasn’t showing it. He set a foldout box of burgers and fries down on the table and dropped a gym bag to the pavement. Both of them sat down, with the jock between the other two. Consequently, he faced me directly.  
  
“Hey,” he started, offering his hand across the table. “Carlos. Nice to meet you.”  
  
I let my surprise show on my face.  
  
He returned with an acknowledging smile. It was a little endearing. “Sophia cleared you, and she’s the most diligent-”  
  
The walking Hot Topic fake-coughed into a fist. “ _Koff_ , paranoid, _ahem_.”  
  
“-of our group.”  
  
Sophia kicked the goth under the table, eliciting an indignant yelp. “Something Dennis here could learn from,” she said.  
  
Dennis raised a hand to point at Sophia, and now I could see that each of his nails had some chipped black polish on them. “Hey, I'm not in school anymore, you can't make me learn anything.”  
  
Carlos wasn't phased. His smile stayed put, and his proffered hand hung between us.  
  
I made a show of considering his offer before I shook his hand. “Emma. And what, exactly, is your group?”  
  
Both Sophia and Dennis looked to Carlos. The three of them had a silent conversation of looks before they decided on something and returned their attention returned to me. Well, mostly- Sophia threw the occasional look around us, probably tracking passers-by. Carlos was the one to speak, affirming my suspicions that he was in charge of the other two, at least nominally.  
  
“Have you heard of the Saboteurs?”  
  
“Can't say I have. Small time?”  
  
Dennis scoffed, overplaying offense.  
  
“Pretty much,” Carlos said. “We're villains, but more ‘stickup’ and ‘smash-and-grab’ than drug runners or traffickers. We mostly steal from other villains- their fronts, cash transport, stash houses, that sort of thing -so the Protectorate don't always try too hard to stop us.”  
  
“Is that really worth the trade-off of having to fight both other villains and the heroes?”  
  
“Against groups like the Carnival? Not often, which is why we don't hit their main stashes much. The Syndicate, though…”  
  
Sophia took over. “The Syndicate has their fingers in too many pies to worry about every crumb we take. Gangs that big, cape or not, expect baseline amounts of losses from factors like us. We're only worth expending real resources for when there's nothing bigger to worry about.”  
  
Something still didn't make sense to me. “On the subway, you mentioned using the info I have to ‘take them on.’ That sounds like more than just picking up table scraps.”  
  
Carlos nodded. “With things as they are, ‘nothing bigger to worry about’ is an eventuality. The Carnival’s taking too much heat from the Protectorate to stay comfortable. As soon as they lose any more members, or if Madcap just gets bored, they'll pack up shop and move to Boston, or back to New York like in oh-seven. Somewhere they can fly under the radar between their big stunts.”  
  
“And when they're gone, the Syndicate become the only real players,” said Sophia. “They set up systems to deal with opportunistic gangs. They work something out with Faultline’s crew, keep them on retainer, push them out, whatever. They leverage their position and connections to negotiate an under-the-table understanding with the Protectorate and PRT, like the Warlocks have up in the Great Lakes, because they're less destructive than most villains and too well-connected to substantially threaten. Then, when they've got nothing else to worry about, they can focus on cleaning out the small-timers. Arsenal. Mod God and Hunk. Us.” She gave me a meaningful look. “You.”  
  
“We want to pre-empt that,” Carlos said. “Destabilize them before they can get too big to stop. Give other groups the chance to come in and complicate things.”  
  
I pursed my lips. “Other groups such as yourselves?”  
  
“Not quite. Just whoever sees what's happening and takes advantage of it.”  
  
_Interesting_ , I thought. He hadn't said no outright. “That's a lot of in-depth predicting and planning for a small-time group, especially if you're not aiming for the big leagues.”  
  
“That's what I've been saying,” Dennis said between bites of fry.  
  
Sophia rolled her eyes at him.  
  
Carlos addressed me. “Raw deal or not, it's necessary. Plus, we've got access to information from reliable sources, so we're neither flying blind nor working alone. But we can talk about that later, if at all. Right now, I think we should get to the point of this meeting.”  
  
I leaned back, folding my arms. “I'm assuming you wouldn't have told me half of that if this was still just a trade negotiation.”  
  
Sophia let a small smile show, and I struggled to place the exact emotion behind it. It was a kind of satisfaction, I thought, or something in the same ballpark.  
  
“You're right,” Carlos said, also smiling. He looked like a boy scout for it. “We're also making you an offer.”  
  
He opened up the gym bag at his feet and retrieved something from it. He set it down on the table. It was a lunchbox, the kind elementary school kids went nuts for. It depicted Syzygy, the Triumverate hero, in a dramatic mid-air pose, her many mechanical wings shrouding her lithe form.  
  
“Two grand,” he said. “That's what we'd pay you for the folder in a straight-up deal.”  
  
I made a point not to let my gaze linger on the lunchbox. “And in a different scenario?”  
  
“The same two grand, as your first payment as a member of the Saboteurs. As one of us.”  
  
I hesitated, then glanced at each of the others. “And you're all cool with that. With asking me to join.”  
  
The other two nodded. Carlos said, “We have a fourth member who couldn't come, but she's okay with us making offers as long as she gets to meet them before anything’s set in stone. If you're in, we were going to meet tonight anyways, in costume. You could come, watch us work, meet our fourth… and we see where we all want to go from there.” He leaned back, the ball now fully out of his court.  
  
I thought.  
  
It was a tempting offer. I'd set out on my own in order to make a name for myself, but I'd known I'd need to arrange for backup eventually. It was offering itself sooner than expected, before I'd truly established myself as a key player alone, but I could work with that, be the new element that takes the small-time team to the big leagues. I'd be safer, better informed, and have more resources at my disposal, which meant bigger and better jobs.  
  
For all the obvious benefits, there were two main wrinkles in the lace: their informant, and this Syndicate. The former could be a simple relationship of exchange, payment for info or info for info, but it could also be a relationship of subordinance, receiving info to complete assignments. I might have asked which was the case outright, but that talking point had been where he'd chosen to stop, so I didn't expect I'd get a straight answer until after I joined.  
  
Instead I asked, “This first payment as a member, would it be a bonus for the folder or part of a regular stipend?”  
  
“The, uh, second. Each of us gets a monthly allowance.”  
  
That was confirmation enough. Growing up, Dad had been adamant about teaching Anne and I what to look for when someone offers payment for anything. Lawyerly vigilance, he'd called it, dramatically.  
  
A stipend implied a power dynamic right off the bat. Regularity meant they were on long-term retainer. The payment suggested a sort of distance, a relationship of trade more than just loyalty or ideology. With the way they'd talked about the Mad Carnival, I doubted their ‘informant’ was Madcap or any other Carnie.  
  
A boss would be a significant obstacle to my own eventual rise. A sponsor, on the other hand, could be a malleable entity, potentially less obstacle and more resource, if I played smartly. My gut told me this was the latter. I could work with that.  
  
The second wrinkle was this Syndicate. I still wasn't sure they actually existed, but these guys seemed to be quite sure. The offer to meet up again tonight would give me an opening to dig for details. If what I learned didn't line up somehow, I'd know they were goose-chasing and dip out.  
  
If it kept making sense? If I found out how long they'd been operating and how far exactly their reach extended?  
  
I might have the name that deserved the blame I'd been carrying for two years.  
  
“The two thousand now,” I counteroffered, “and, if I say yes, another thousand beyond the stipend. A bonus for my own individual work in getting it.”  
  
Carlos shot Sophia a glance.  
  
She nodded.  
  
“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Deal.” He slid the lunchbox closer to me, right in front of my tray and forgotten food. “28th and J, eleven.”  
  
Sophia looked to my backpack, then at me.  
  
I pulled the folder from the inner pocket of my jacket instead, tossing it onto the table, just short of their box of burgers.  
  
That small smile, again.  
  
“Pleasure doing business, Saboteurs.” I rose, slung my backpack and gathered up my trash. Everything but the iced tea disappeared into a nearby trash bin. Before I walked away I shot back a playful wink.  
  
“See you tonight.”


End file.
